Nothing: A Look Into the Life of Foxface
by ForeverFoxface
Summary: The mysterious, sly and impeccably smart character dubbed only as 'Foxface' by Katniss may just be another ordinary, dead tribute. But there is more to this strange girl than one might think, and she, like the others, does have one thing: a story.


**Note from the Author:** I just wanted to put this here to apologize to all my readers and reviewers. I have had absolutely no time to write any poems or fanfiction, and each day I am bashing myself atop the head because of it. I've been busy writing a high school application, which is extremely important (and probably my first priority before everything else) but I PROMISE that I will get the next chapter of Children of War up very soon! So sorry to keep you guys waiting. In the meantime, I hope this oneshot makes up for my lack of writing lately. If anyone has any 'prompt and person' pairings, by all means, let me know! I love to write longer oneshots and would adore some ideas. Believe me, I can think of a lot of things that connect people and topics. Expect a lot more from me lately, because all the high school business will be done! Woopee!

With that being said—here is Foxface, the whole reason why I liked the Hunger Games in the first place (aside from Clove and Glimmer, later) for the prompt 'Nothing'.

Foxface – **Nothing**

She was always barefoot, and her feet were always cold.

But she liked it.

On this particular winter morning, she thought she had heard the whispers, whispers that the snow was on its way. She had seen snow in the valley a couple of times before, and had liked it immensely—crisp white dots falling from the sky, so similar to the dreams she always had, which normally ended with blizzards of white dots that clouded her vision. Oh, how she longed to see snow this year, this morning.

Instead the rain drummed on the rooftop, laughing at her, challenging her to stay awake and not to curl back up in the fetal position. She shivered and made an attempt to generate heat by wrapping the two thin sheets around her gaunt body. It had been nothing but a lie; another one of those lies that always turned into one of her daydreams.

And the battered old tennis shoes had lain there all through her morning-daydream, soles and laces seeming to give her half-smiles, begging to be worn. But not today. Today she would once again trek through the slick streets bare-footed, letting the soot and debris gather on her dainty yet callused feet. She slung the tennis shoes over her shoulder, because her mother always begged her to bring them along even if she wasn't going to wear them, along with a small coin pouch and a basket for the market. The girl took a peek into her pouch. She had been lucky today: Father had slipped a few extra coins into her bag.

She quickly scanned the breadth of the little domicile, making sure that her brothers were still asleep. Their flaming locks stuck out wildly in each direction, as always. Her brothers were lucky—they weren't old enough to help support the family on their own. She, being the oldest, slept in an individual bed, and her feet always stuck out at the end despite her height. In their household, each piece of furniture was the result of hard work; each meal set out on the makeshift dinner table a blessing.

The girl gave a quick nod to no one in particular and tiptoed out the door on silent feet, not bothering to lock it. Her wild red mane blew in the wind behind her as she took the path to the heart of her District, barefoot, which was not too far from her home.

As she slunk into the main town, a few people looked down at her feet and gave her half-hearted smiles, looking almost sympathetic. But the girl was fine, meeting each gaze with a toothy half-smile of her own.

Today she would find work.

The man was big and hearty, and he smelled like pudding—which was a laughable comment, considering that his belly looked like it had been filled at least hundred times with the substance. The girl gaped at his fat figure, wondering how on earth he had acquired the kind of money to feed himself in this way.

He mumbled something unintelligible, chuckled, and gave her a rather forceful pat on the back. Instantly the girl knew that he was another drunkard, one that could most likely be quite stupid, if not dangerous. She had encountered many of them, mostly men, while working in the main town, and wondered why she was never lucky enough to work for a decent man or woman. District 5 was full of people, both rich and poor, but mainly the former. Yet those who could buy clothes for themselves rather than sew them were stingy and refused to share, thus leaving the other families, like hers, without money.

_Why must the world be such a cruel place?_ She wondered. _How could giving be such a daunting task?_

She sighed to herself and expertly snatched a handful of coins off the man's granite counter, then slipped out the door, leaving the drunkard inside to explode into fits of laughter once again. The pair of tennis shoes still hung over her shoulder, adding what seemed to be hundreds of pounds to the small load that she had to carry. She found that larceny was the easiest way to bring money home, and soon she had mastered the art of thievery.

When she reached her destination, all she could do was collapse. She let the coins clatter onto the floor, falling from her bony hand, and dropped the tennis shoes as well, once again abandoned and alone.

Her mother always told her to wear them, but she never did.

Two years later, that same girl stands in the crowd of female fifteen-year-olds for the Reaping. She is frail, emaciated, and bony, but there is still a look of grim determination on her angular face, and behind that, an incredible air of slyness. The girls near her, most of them equally thin and frail (with the exception of a couple plump girls standing around the outskirts of the circle), all have their hands crossed over their chests, their faces all mirroring each others'.

The overly bubbly woman introduces herself—the girl doesn't bother to listen to the name—then begins with her all-too-well known squeal of "…and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She follows that up with a "Ladies first!" and draws a white slip from the female reaping ball. The girl can only hope that the name called will not belong to her. The female nearest her shrinks back into the shadows, cowering as though her name being called would be like being executed right there. The children who are Reaped today will be thrust toward their doom. The Games are quite like being tossed over a ledge into a hungry pit of fire.

Of course, Capitol viewers enjoy every moment of the Games, each name dwindling down to a number, each fatality a slip of paper tossed in the wastebasket. Families of Career tributes all watch their moving boxes. They crowd around their screens like zombies, shoving each other for a better view of the carnage, stomping their feet when a family member is killed, and then blaming the mentors for not having given them proper training, or so she had heard. And then there are the other families, poor, rich, and middle class—everything—from the other districts. They also watch, consisting of people both large and small, and siblings shed a tear when their brother or sister is killed. Distressed parents try to hold back the salty drops that stream down their face, but it is impossible.

In all reality, the Districts are full of different people, some brainwashed to honor the Games, some forced into them, and some raised to be terrified of them. This is what keeps the Capitol audience going—the variety.

The woman squints at the paper and reads the name scrawled on it in a squawky voice, but those two words are just a distorted haze to the girl.

The second time the woman calls her name she hears it, loud and clear. She's not quite sure if it belongs to her anymore—what good are names, anyway? They are only words that people attach images of other people to.

Alas, it is her name, and therefore she walks up to the stage, her face devoid of emotion, stretching her neck as tall as it can stretch. She acts very calm and gratified, looking out at the writhing crowd, trying not to let her eyes wander too much.

The male tribute is called, but the girl really couldn't be more uncaring about him. He's shorter than her (which isn't quite an achievement—she's only about five feet tall or so) and stockier. He flashes his yellowed smile in her direction and she looks away, not trying to be conceited, but knowing that this boy will die first. He's too full of himself and clearly nervous.

But he will certainly not die at her hands. No one will.

That she is sure of.

Her mentor, Corinne, wakes her up early that morning. It is Day One of training Hell, and she, of course, has no skill with weapons. However, she still appears on the training floor bright and early, not tired in the least. The girl doesn't care to learn names, not even her district partner's, and hasn't bothered to interact much with the other tributes—their appearances have been uninviting enough. For starters, there are these year's Career Tributes. The blonde girl from District One is tall—likely over six feet, perfectly proportioned, and has a model-like look about her. She is also likely the lightest of the female Careers, managing to look healthy while being strangely thin. The boy from her District is also very tall, with strong arms and a cruel expression. He looks like he regrets volunteering for the Games, because behind all that muscle is a strange air of regret and sadness. District Two, however, looks set to kill. The girl is peculiar—she's the shortest Career, yet has very strong-looking legs and a wicked throwing arm. And her district partner, the very embodiment of deadliness, keeps a close eye on her wherever she goes. He could snap someone's neck effortlessly with his strength, not to mention break the unhealthily thin young child from Eleven in half.

Most of the other tributes look underfed (including her), afraid, and woeful. The exceptions are the female and male from Four, another classic Career district, the titanic man (definitely not boy) from Eleven, who looks laughable next to his fragile district partner, and both tributes from Twelve, who look unusually determined—especially the girl. She is almost stick-thin, but looks like she could murder someone using expressions alone. The boy looks like a harmless little rabbit compared to her, but still seems determined as well. The poorest district in Panem, whose tributes have not been victors for years, might just have a survivor in these 74th Games.

Atala, the muscular and athletic-looking instructor, gives a speech that the girl does not bother to listen to. When the tributes are given the signal to begin training, she makes a beeline for the edible plants station, though she doesn't listen because she is confident in her abilities to choose edible foods. In fact, the idea that she doesn't know what she's eating is quite silly, for she is very educated on the subject of edible plants. Many times in her life, she has had to settle for berries and roots for dinner. No, the odds have never been in her family's favor, and hopefully she could come home bearing an endless supply of food and money in a couple of weeks, using a strategy that she has seen no victor use before: evasion. Of course, the Games are a killing competition, but the female from District 7 who won a few years back certainly didn't look like she was planning on killing anyone until the end of her Games. And maybe that was what she would do: wait until she had the chance, then wipe out the remaining couple of tributes. Of course, it was risky—she had never even held a weapon before—but it was her only hope. Who knows what the Gamemakers would do eventually to bring the tributes together?

It is never a smart thing to get caught up in a daydream. Districts 1 and 2 are approaching her, the blond girl prowling in her direction like a deadly tiger. The girl quickly shoots past the monstrous brute from Two and finds a more hidden and unused station across the room. She knows what they are doing: the Careers are terrorizing the others early, which is smart yet stupid at the same time.

Atala signals quitting time, and the girl is thankful to return to her quarters. She doesn't usually show her emotions so publicly, and for that reason she feels like a failure. It is only then that she looks down, and realizes that her old, ratty tennis shoes have been on her feet the entire time. She suddenly feels a deep respect for them, because she will most likely never see her family again until they are all glittering stars; reunited in a world far, far away from this one. The reality of the Games sinks in, and the girl tries to believe that she will not be a contender for long.

When she returns to her room, narrowly avoiding a direct verbal assault from one of the Careers, she fingers the little chain with the mask that hangs around her neck. She had snatched it from the counter of a rich man who had a daughter when he wasn't looking one day, and was thinking of selling it at the market, but instead decided to keep it. Since then she had always worn it, occasionally over-dependent on it to keep up her level of extreme confidence. The girl wears a mask, one made of cold stone, but behind that mask is a great sadness that pools in her eyes. But she knows that she must be strong and appreciate everything in life from here on, because she will not have the chance to return home. And even though she would prefer her uncomfortable bed of straw to this cushioned Capitol mattress, she will never go back. Life is an arrow that points to the right, not the left, for her, never leaving a 'back' option.

She kneels on the floor and buries her head in the soft down of the mattress, clutching her silver chain, and says good-bye—twice, so she will not have to again, when she dies. Her internal message will have already been delivered.

Her eyes flutter closed as she tries not to worry about what sleep might bring.

As the girl's glass tube rises to bring her up into the arena, she thinks—hard—about those shoes. She only got the chance to wear them once, always slipping on her muddy loafers instead. By any other poor family's standards, the tennis shoes would have been more durable and comfortable, and it is only then that she realizes how stupid she has been. But there is no time to think—her glass tube has already dropped down into the dark abyss that lies below her, and she is left standing out in the open on a golden plate, with District Eight boy to her right and a girl from Three on her left. She's lucky—no Careers next to her that would take her out in a heartbeat.

The very moment the gong sounds, the girl dashes toward the forest, not bothering to grab any food or supplies from the towering golden death trap. Already she hears the screams of the dying, and wonders if a killer could be right behind her, waiting to surprise her with a knife in the back or run her through with a sword. But for now, she will have to rely on her impeccable skills of thievery.

She has nothing.

But when has it ever been different?

When has she actually had something to love, to hold on to? Never.

Because the thing that she has always done best is running away.

In this competition of death, she will always be running away from something. And she will not stop until her eyes glaze over and she drops to the ground.

And even then, she will never stop. She will keep running.

Never.


End file.
